Karma
by PiefaceMcGee
Summary: Ronald Knox is asked how he became a shinigami, and he thinks back on the entire story in a fond reminiscence.
1. Meeting

_[Hey there! Lunar Raine, AKA Pie, here. Thanks for checking out my new fic~ Reviews are forever loved; I always aim to improve. Readers of Unexpected Changes, please see my profile for a fic update. Thanks!]  
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><p>"How did you die?"<p>

In the world of the grim reapers, one reaper asking another this question was very common; almost expected. It was normal to be curious about the deaths of your coworkers, and given the nature of their jobs, it was not really consider private information. While there were those who _did_ choose to keep their deaths a mystery, the question was generally accepted as innocent and unobtrusive. So it had been a perfectly normal question asked casually one dark, drizzly afternoon at the Grim Reaper Library.

Grell Sutcliff had slid next to his subordinate that day during their lunch break with a look on his face that was a little less mischievous than normal, and rested his chin on top of his laced, well-manicured fingers. "Oh, Ronnie?" he cooed. "Might I borrow a bit of your time?"

Ronald Knox smiled a little unconcernedly and didn't even look up from the sandwich he was eating. The only time Grell ever acted like this was when he wanted a favor – usually paperwork – done. "You can do your own paperwork, Mr. Sutcliff," he said. "I gotta get out the door in less than an hour because I've got a full reapin' schedule. I'm not gonna work _aaaany _overtime."

The redhead scowled. "It's not _about _that, actually," he huffed indignantly, but he grinned again and leaned close, baring his sharp teeth in a broad leer. "I just have a teeny, tiny, itsy-bitsy question I want to ask, and it's not about any paperwork, Ronnie, I promise~"

Ronald set his sandwich down and scooted a few inches away from Grell to give himself some elbow room and breathing space, and then turned to the side to face him, resting his cheek on his knuckles, playfully pretending to be bored. "Alright, what?"

"How'd you die?"

Ronald blink and lifted his head up, having not expected anything like that. "How'd I die?" he repeated incredulously, raising his eyebrows a little.

Grell twiddled with his fingers, looking away with a slight mock-embarrassed expression. "Weeellll…I mean, if you don't want to talk about it, it's fine; I've just been so very curious for the past few days, you know? I think I know how everyone else has gone, and I know everything about you _except_for that…"

Ronald took another bite out of his sandwich. "Huh. I haven't even thought about it for a while, now. It's not a real pretty story, but – "  
>Grell just clapped his hands together in delight, looking elated. "Is it a complete tragedy?" he asked excitedly. "You know how much I <em>adore<em>those."

The blonde looked thoughtful for a moment. "I s'pose it is. I wouldn't call it a _tragedy_, but it's pretty sad if you think about it."  
>The effeminate shinigami gasped. "Tell me, <em>tell me<em>!" he cried. "Now I _must_know! You can't leave me hanging. Now, tell me everything at once! From start to finish, and spare no gory details!"

Ronald stole a glance at his wristwatch. His first scheduled death for the day was in an hour. If he told Grell the story quickly, he was sure he would be able to get out on time. He shrugged his shoulders and finished off his sandwich, licking a bit of mayonnaise from his fingers when he was done. "Alright. I can tell you real quick."

Grell squealed with delight and triumph, swooping down upon Ronald to deliver a bone-crushing hug. "Ooooh, _thank you_, Ronnie~!"  
>Ronald grunted and pried the redhead off of himself, gasping for air. "Whoaaa! Calm down, mate, it's just a dumb story – "<p>

Grell gasped again, this time looking scandalized. "Just a dumb story? It's how you _died_! It's so deep and intimate and such a _defining moment _in your existence and you call it 'just a dumb story'?"

Ronald raised his hands defensively, a little alarmed at the outburst. "H-hey, relax, sir! I mean it's no big deal for me to tell you. D'you want to hear it or not?"

The older shinigami nodded fervently, grinning again. "Yes, please."

Once he was sure Grell was calm again, Ronald turned his attention back to his empty food tray, aimlessly trailing a finger through the crumbs for a moment, deciding how to begin. "Okay…to start, it was four years ago, and I was different back then. I was kinda…uh, well…shy. I was kinda go-with-the-flow like I am now, but I didn't really have any goals in life. Not really aggressive or even particularly assertive at all. Just mostly did what I was told and went along with it 'cause I didn't really have anywhere else to go. And I didn't have any dreams at all, except for one. There was a girl who I was terrified to talk to, but back then, I – "

Grell snorted and clapped a hand to his mouth to try and muffle the laughter that spilled forth from it. "_You_? You were afraid to talk to girls? I don't _believe_ it, Ron, this sounds more lika tall tale!"

Ronald grinned and laughed back. "Yeah, I know, right? It's hard to believe, but it was a long time ago. I had plenty of time to change my image. Once it really sank in I was immortal, I…well, anyway, I'll just tell you from the beginning. I grew up in this really tiny village out in the middle of nowhere. There were…oh, I dunno, maybe one or two hundred people living there, if that. Really tiny and boring as hell. I – "

"You shouldn't speak so ill of your home town," Grell interrupted.

"It was a hick town out in the boonies," Ronald said with an unconcerned shrug. 'I shouldn't have to glorify it or anything just because I was born there. I also died there, so it's not like I've got any special attachments to it. _Anyway_." Grell shut his mouth and motioned sealing his lips together, tipping the blonde shinigami a wink. Ronald just smiled and playfully winked back at the effeminate redhead. "Anyway. I didn't really have a proper family. My mum died when I was fifteen and she didn't know who my father was…so I was kinda shunted from how to house, and did whatever jobs I could take on in order to make a living. So that's probably why I'm a Jack-of-all-trades, see? I did just about everything. So that's the boring tale of my upbringing."

Grell raised an eyebrow and watched as Ronald paused to take a drink of water. "That's it?"

"Well, they're the essentials…I don't really have time to tell you the whole thing right this _second_, so I'm just setting the scene for you. I'll tell you the rest another time. Okay?"

"Oh, I see."

"Alright, now there's two important people in this story. First…" Ronald looked wistfully off to the side as he spoke now, his tone becoming soft. "…is Christine Alexandra Trowell. She was the first girl I ever loved." (Grell gasped in delight at this.) "And to this day, still the prettiest I'd ever known. Long chestnut hair, chocolate eyes, cherry lips…just…so completely beautiful, not to mention sweet and charming and, and utterly brilliant. She was _perfect_. I was completely _mad_ for her, right? Head over heels for her. There wasn't a waking moment when I _wasn't_ thinking of her. And I wasn't the only one. I'm pretty sure half the men in town were in love with her. Especially her, uh, extremely jealous fiancée, who is our second person: Clint Montgomery." Now Ronald smirked and turned his gaze back to Grell.

"There are only two words that can describe this bloke," he said, holding up two fingers, "and they are 'humongous' and 'wanker'. Now, Clint, this fiancée, was a great, hulking ape of a man, and the landlord's son. The landlord was some baron or duke or something and owned quite a lot of property, and for one reason or another allowed people to build a town on his land. But _because_ he was the landlord's son, he could kinda get away with anything, and he did. Because his dear daddy was just as nasty as his little boy, so everyone was scared of them. If you got on Mr. Montgomery's bad side, he could evict you and basically boot you right out of town.

"He had some shady connections – men in expensive-looking suits came with big crates for him all the time; we were sure that they were drugs, or weapons or _something_ – so as soon as you were out of town, those guys made sure you stayed out. Every once in a while someone would even go missing, only to turn up in the river a week later with a bullet between their eyes. And we knew it was them doing this. There was all sorts of evidence pointing to them…but we never had any _proof_ or any witnesses. It was because of that, and the fact that we were a remote enough town, and small enough, that we didn't even have proper police, and these guys actually got away with this stuff, if you can believe that. It was pretty awful. Everyone was just scared out of their wits all the time. Even something like telling a joke that those two didn't like could get you hurt somehow. A joke, or dissatisfying service at the pub or the bakery, or even wearing something they didn't like – anything. If you could think of it, we were paranoid that it'd offend them somehow, and so we'd just shut up all the time and pray that none of their mooks were listening or watching."

Ronald paused again to draw in a breath, now nibbling idly on a fingernail. It was funny; he really hadn't thought about any of this in such a long time, not even offered his memories a passing glance.

"Clint was the kind of bloke to charge a "protection fee", as he called it," he went on. "Insurance. He'd make people pay him so he wouldn't beat 'em up if they pissed him off. There were a few brave souls who would refuse to pay, endure the violence, and keep doing what they wanted, but of course as soon as Clint realized his fists weren't keeping people in line anymore, he'd just run straight home to his _daddy_ and raise a giant stink. We never saw those people again…anyways, Clint and Christine were actually in an arranged marriage, though I had no clue at the time. She was the mayor's daughter, so Mr. Montgomery thought it was a match made in heaven or something. But _I _had no idea they were even engaged since she hated him as much as the next person did, which was how the whole thing got started…"

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><p>"Knox! When you're done daydreamin' over there, I need you back behind the counter! <em>Pronto<em>!" the barkeeper called. "I've got loads of dirty drinkin' glasses that need cleanin', so quit your lollygaggin'!"

Ronald flinched slightly, startled and a little embarrassed at being caught idling, and nodded quickly, tightening his grip on the broom he was holding. "Ah! Yessir, sorry, sir!" he called back with a little affirmative salute. A little bit too enthusiastically, he began sweeping the last of the dust from the pub floor and out the door. The mousy-haired boy was so focused on his work that he didn't notice two figures trying to get into the pub until the larger of them shoved him roughly into the doorframe.

"Knox, you miserable little runt, pay attention when your betters are around!" he barked.

Winded, Ronald looked up to find himself staring into the glaring, scowling face of Clint Montgomery. When he realized who it was, he gasped and bowed his head low, more out of fright than out of respect. "B-beg your pardon, Mr. Montgomery," he stammered as well as he could while trying to regain his breath. He clutched the broomstick so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "I was…I just…I was just trying to…to do a good job, s-so I wasn't looking up…"

He was suddenly seized by the collar and yanked roughly forward, his nose about an inch away from Clint's.

"Well, from now on, start looking up so I can get a drink when I want one," the bigger man sneered. "Rats like you should stick to the shadows, where you belong."

"Y-y-yes, sir, you're right, sir, I'm lower than d-dirt, sir," Ronald muttered quietly, going pale. Better to just agree with the man; this was the most common tactic used by his fellow villagers; none of them liked confronting him at all.

Clint only looked disgusted. "Don't patronize me, Knox," he grunted, shoving Ronald back into the doorjamb. This time, the mousy-haired boy was so winded that he collapsed, falling sideways out the door and into the mud and slush. When he looked up, pink-faced and spitting icy mud out of his mouth, he finally took notice of the person who had been accompanying Clint: Christine Trowell. Turning quite red in the face and heart skipping a beat, he quickly averted his gaze, praying she wasn't watching him.

He heard Clint give a satisfied snort, and watched the two of them go into the pub out of the corner of his eye. Once they were in, Ronald unsteadily got up to his feet, picking the broom back up as he did. He looked at it and saw that it was dripping with mud; he couldn't possibly sweep with it now without getting mud everywhere. With a little noise of frustration and irritation, as well as a nasty look at Clint behind his back, he shook it out as well as he could. When he stepped back inside, he kept a wary, watchful eye on Clint as he quickly swept the rest of the dirt out the door, and then hurried to the washroom. He stayed there for a few minutes to clear the mud out of his face and hair, as well as wash it off of his shirt and rince it from his mouth. Once he had cleaned up satisfactorily, he shuffled back out front, behind the counter, and quickly began polishing wine glasses and beer mugs. "Ah…please…let me know when you're ready to order," he muttered. When he looked up, Clint was nowhere in sight; he found only Christine sitting there, her eyes on him.

Face reddening all over again, he felt his heart leap up into his throat before flopping down into his stomach. She was _watching_ him. Why was she watching him? Was there something wrong? Was there still mud all over him? He cast a lighting glance down at himself and found nothing amiss.

She smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid I don't really care for alcohol," she said, "but Clint insisted on bringing me here anyway. Could I just have a glass of water, instead?"

"Y…yes, of course, M-Miss Trowell," he stammered, face heating up considerably. He fretted over what to pour the water in; water wasn't regularly served to customers unless it was to sober them up, so there were no normal drinking glasses. He stole another glance at her, startled to see that she was still watching him, a small smile set on her lips. If he'd been blushing before, it was nothing compared to how red he was now. Modestly averting his gaze, he quickly settled on a wine glass, which he considered to be nicer than the mugs, and filled it up with water, hoping to God that she wouldn't think it was weird or something. Awkwardly, he noted to himself that she was the only one who could fluster him like this, make him so self-conscious.

As he handed the glass to her, Christine spoke to him. "You're Ronald Knox, right?"

He looked up at her in a considerable amount of surprise, forgetting his manners. "Y-you know who I am?" he blurted.

She laughed. "Of course! Your name seems to come up everywhere I go, these days. People say you're a hard worker, and a very good one. You do a little bit of everything, don't you?"

"…" Ronald stood stock-still, mouth hanging open very slightly. It was true that he was sort of the town's go-for, errand boy, and, in rare situations, emergency repairman; he'd gained quite the reputation over the past few years. But he rarely ever even saw Christine out and about in the town, so the fact that she knew this completely blew him away. "I…I…I guess I do," he finally uttered once he'd remembered how to speak.

She took a sip from her glass. "So you're good at fixing things?"

He blinked, slowing down the polishing of his glass. He liked to tinker, and honestly thought it was dumb luck that he managed to fix things by fiddling about. "…Erm…that's…that's what they tell me. I guess it depends on what it is, but I…think I'm alright at it, generally…" But by now, his mind was racing to the verge of panic. Why was she asking? What possible interest could she have in him? He was just a poor, nameless orphan of no significance, and she was _Christine_. A Trowell! Why would she…

She brightened. "Can you fix a furnace? Ours just completely stopped working last night; and in the middle of January, too! I nearly froze solid…"

Oh. _There_ was the catch; it was obvious. She just wanted something fixed. Of course. He deflated a tiny bit, but nodded. "Ye-yeah, I'm sure I could…ah…give it a try…if it's not t-too…different from the one at the Baker's…it should…um, be easy…" he stammered. _Gods_ why couldn't he just spit out what he wanted to say? She was just so damn pretty that his tongue tied itself in knots and made him feel like an idiot.

"Oh, that's so wonderful! Thank you, Ronald, you're a lifesaver!" she said brightly. "Papa called a repair shop in London this morning, but they're so busy that the earliest someone could come out wasn't until three weeks from now! We would have all turned into icicles in the meantime!"

Ronald felt a smile creep onto his face despite himself, immensely pleased by her confidence in him. He stood up a little straighter with an air of self-importance, but remained modest with his words. "W-well, I haven't fixed it _yet_…I still need to look at it, s-so let's not count our chickens before they hatch…"

She beamed at him, brown eyes positively shining. "Even so, I've got this feeling that you can definitely do it!"

Ronald felt even his ears grow warm, and he smiled shyly and hunched his shoulders a little, modestly averting his gaze again. "I'll do my best, Miss Trowell."

"Oh, please, call me Christine. Everyone does."

Ronald flushed even more – she was suggesting that level of intimacy? But they'd hardly just met! Lord, it was just one thing right after another with this girl; she never ran out of surprises. "O-oh, no, I couldn't – I – " he began helplessly, desperate for a subject change. "Um, ah – when did you want me to have a look at the furnace?"

"Oh! Tonight, if you could!" Christine smiled. "Do you know where I live? Our house is the brick one across the road from the post office."

Ronald did know of it, but he'd never known who lived there. Now that he knew who did, it explained its size – it was the largest building in the tiny village, not counting the Montgomery manor, which was a mile off the main road. "Yes…of course. I'll come by after work, then," he murmured quietly.

She took another sip of water, still smiling serenely. "Thank you so much, Ronald."

Suddenly, a large, beefy hand shot out and seized the glass of water that Christine was drinking from. Ronald and Christine both recoiled with fright and looked up to see Clint scowling at the glass. "What the hell is this, Knox? Not giving my woman wine if she wants some? What kind of service is this establishment giving! I ought to have you sacked! Have this rathole torn down!"

"It's…it's what she ordered, Mr. Montgomery," Ronald faltered. He gasped and choked when Clint grabbed him tightly by the collar, partially constricting his airways, and half dragged him over the counter, ignoring Christine's outraged cries.

"Do you think I was born yesterday, Knox?" Clint asked venomously. "Why would she ask for common water when she's clearly here in a bloody _pub_? Use your brains, you stupid, worthless little rat, and then you might actually amount to something." Suddenly, Christine seized his other arm and pulled roughly at it to get his attention.

"_Stop it_, Clint! He didn't do anything wrong!" she said sharply. He cast a sidelong glance at her, narrowing his eyes, but she continued boldly. "He was just doing his job properly like a good barman! And I _did_ ask for water, thank you ever so much. Now put him _down_. You're _hurting_ him."

He looked away from her, tightening his grip on Ronald's collar. The tension in the room was horrible. "You're in my way," he growled to Ronald, glaring at him and ignoring his need to breathe. "I don't like how cozy you're getting with my Christine. This is my warning to you to _stop it now_, and believe me when I tell you I'm being rather generous."

Before he could say another word, Christine reached out, yanked Clint back, and slapped him across the face with a loud clap that reverberated through the room. "I am not _your _Christine," she snapped heatedly, her voice carrying a surprising air of authority. "I don't _belong _to you. Now put. Him. _Down_. You're _hurting_ him, and he can't breathe. _Drop him._"

Clint slowly turned to face her again and stared at her long and hard, scrutinizing her. But Christine held her ground, glaring right back at him and discreetly massaging the palm of the hand that she'd slapped him with. If Ronald hadn't been so terrified, he'd be staring at her in awe, but the other patrons in the pub were doing that for him. After a full, horrible minute of intense silence, the larger man abruptly released Ronald, doing little more than dropping him. The mousy haired boy gasped sharply for air and hit the counter hard, face first, causing his nose to bleed before he crashed to the floor. He coughed violently and gasped for air, his legs trembling horribly and his face nearly as white as the snow outside. Clint tossed the rest of Christine's water into the boy's pale face, making him cough and sputter anew.

"Hmph. I'll let you off this time, runt." He calmly set the empty glass onto the counter. 'But I've lost my interest in having a drink today…I can't drink in a place that has a _rat_ infestation." With that, he abruptly threw an arm around Christine's shoulders and led her out, oblivious to her infuriated expression. Ronald watched her as they left, his heart beginning to ache for her already. She'd defended him against _Clint_…he'd never known of anyone with the guts to do that, not even her father, the mayor. Her anger had been sincere and passionate…she'd honestly cared about him. His heart fluttered pleasantly at the very thought of it. Despite his residual fear from the encounter with Clint, a smile found its way to his face at the very idea: she'd _defended_ him. Clint nothing; today was his lucky day.

Suddenly, he felt himself being helped onto his feet, and he looked up to see the owner of the pub, John Whitmore. "Ah…I'm sorry, Mr. Whitmore, I – "

"Don't apologize, son, he would have done the same to me," the middle-aged, graying man said gravely. "To anyone, really. But that Trowell girl! Now _she_is something else! I didn't know she had that in her. Plucky girl, she is…never seen such a brazen woman in all my days. Might as well be a boy."

Ronald nodded in agreement, and Mr. Whitmore handed him an old, worn towel, which the boy gratefully took and patted his face and hair dry with. He then held it to his nose, which was still bleeding. "I wish something could be done about Clint," he muttered bitterly. "He's so horrid, and for no good reason. His dad, too."

"Ah, lad, doesn't everyone?" Mr. Whitmore sighed, setting a sympathetic hand onto Ronald's shoulder. "Mark my words: no good will ever come of a rubbish attitude like that. It'll all come back to haunt him one day, just you watch."

Ronald pulled the towel from his nose after a few minutes and inspected it, seeing that his nose had stopped bleeding and hadn't bled much. He set the towel aside, putting Christine's glass into a soapy basin behind him, and got started on polishing wine glasses again. His shoulders were slumped in defeat. "I can't even imagine him getting what he deserves. No one stands a chance against him."

Mr. Whitmore stood by Ronald and also began polishing glass beer mugs. "No, trust me, Knox, he will. He's rich and powerful here, yeh, but outside? Wouldn't last a week. Everything he's got is his father's; his power, influence, wealth – but as soon as he goes somewhere else, he's gonna have nothin'. Every time he comes in here, I hear him boastin' about how he's gonna live in London and rule it like he's the ruddy Queen. There's much tougher folk than him waitin' in London, and with no dear old Dad to back him up, he's gonna learn a real hard lesson. Betcha anything he'll come running back home with his tail tucked between his legs, so to speak."

Ronald looked out the door through which Clint and Christine had gone with widened eyes, not quite daring to believe that that was possible. "Really?" he said doubtfully.

"Trust me on this one. If London's not the end of him, I betcha that Christine will be. She's a fiery one, and the only creature on Earth he'll listen to."

As soon as Mr. Whitmore brought _her _up again, Ronald found himself smiling, replaying his brief conversation with her over and over in his head. And he'd get to see her again…tonight! No matter what, he was going to fix the furnace, and he was going to do an even better job at it than the bakery's furnace two months ago. He absolutely couldn't let her down. He thought about how happy and excited she'd be once he'd succeeded, fantasizing about her asking him to join her for dinner – oh, no, he _couldn't _– but no, she _insisted _– he was happy to fix it for her, he didn't need so much – but no, she insisted he was a hero, and she gave him a thankful peck on the cheek –

"Knooooooox. Your polishin' rag's stopped moving again." Mr. Whitmore's voice had regained its stern edge. Ronald jumped, blushing at having been caught daydreaming again, and began polishing his glass with renewed vigor.

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><p><em>Yeaaaah, I know. RonaldxOC. Bear with me, it gets better. Again, I forever love reviews. ;w;<em>


	2. The Cellar

_Thank you to everyone who read/reviewed. I greatly appreciate it! :3 This chapter's a tiny bit shorter but I hope you like it._

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><p>Ronald stood up on the front steps of the Trowell house, a little intimidated by its size. He'd never had a reason to come as close as the front steps before — or anywhere near it, for that matter — so looking up at the magnificent stonework made him feel rather small, even insignificant. But he drew himself up, despite his nervousness, and knocked loudly, if meekly, on the door.<p>

It opened quite suddenly, and Ronald jerked back in surprise, eyes wide. An elderly footman stood ready at the door, staring at Ronald in a stoic and expectant manner. Ronald blinked, relaxing slowly. "Ah…hello," he began uncertainly, suddenly wondering if he was indeed at the right place. "I'm Ronald Knox…er, Miss Trowell asked me over to fix the furnace?"

"Ah, yes. We have been expecting you…please come in." The footman stepped aside to allow Ronald some room. He stepped inside with a little grateful nod, and followed the footman further into the house. Ronald's steps were slow; he was looking around with wide eyes at how elegant and grand and spacious the house was. It seemed many times larger on the inside than it looked form the outside (which was already large), and he couldn't even have come close to touching the ceiling, even if he'd jumped. It was positively cavernous.

"Any time you're ready, sir," the footman said, a touch of dryness to his tone. Ronald jumped a little and scurried over to the footman's side, watching him light a lantern before opening a door. It led down into pure darkness, and for some reason it made a shiver go up Ronald's spine, but the footman was unconcerned and made his descent down the stairs and into the cellar. Ronald followed him, holding onto the rail as he went down, focusing on the lantern that the footman held high.

It was next to freezing cold at the bottom of the cellar, and Ronald could see his breath in the lantern's light. The footman struck a match and lit another lantern in the center of the room, which cast light all around. From what Ronald could see, the place was seldom used and visited even less, for there were thick layers of dust and dirt caked onto every surface in the room. He could hear rats scurrying about in the shadows, as well, back into obscurity and hiding from the lantern's light. "The furnace is here," the older man said, pointing to the corner of the room. "Have you everything you need?" 

Ronald lifted his measly little toolbox and shook it slightly, its contents rattling around inside. "I think so, thanks."

The footman eyed Ronald rather critically as the younger man stepped over to the broken furnace to inspect it. "Are you quite sure you're up for this job?"

Ronald ran his hands along the device, brushing the dust off of the top of it. "I think so," he said. "This is the same one as the Baker's furnace. London-made, nine years ago. Huh…funny that they'd break down so close together. I guess that's just how long they last? Oh well; I fixed the other one, so I definitely know how to fix this one, and — "

"Then I will leave you to your errand," the footman said blandly, turning on his heel. Ronald turned and glanced at him with a furrowed brow and a frown at the brusque dismissal, but he shrugged and opened the machine up to begin repairing it.

Ronald was down in the cellar for at least an hour and a half, trying to fix it as well as he could while shaking madly from head to toe due to the sheer cold, when another lantern cast its light into the cellar. He didn't notice it; he was too intent on his work and his teeth were chattering so terribly that it blocked out the sound of someone descending the staircase. He tinkered with a few more things with a furrowed brow before pulling out and turning a few switches. There was a terrific _bang_! as the thing roared to life, and Ronald positively beamed with satisfaction, tossing his wrench into the air with a spin and catching it again to express his victory to himself. "Yes!" he cried triumphantly, grinning from ear to ear. "That _has_ to be a new record~"

"I'd certainly say so! That was _amazing_!" a voice exclaimed happily.

"Yeah, wasn't it _just _—?" he started cheekily, without thinking, only to look up mid-sentence and see that it was Christine. He immediately blushed so fiercely that he felt his entire face heat up, and he let out a little exclamation of shock and embarrassment. "O-oh! Miss Trowell! I'm so sorry — h-how-how long have you been standing there…?"

She giggled behind a hand, and Ronald's stomach flopped — partly because of how adorable it was, and partly because he thought she might be laughing at what he'd just said. "I just now came down to check on you…the servants are all busy, so I snuck down, myself!" She giggled again, only to stop short, looking shocked at something, and hurried to him, lifting the hem of her skirt from the floor as she crossed the room. "Oh — Ronald, I didn't get a chance to make sure earlier, but Clint didn't hurt you too badly, did he?" she asked worriedly. "Your nose was bleeding when he made me leave. I'm so sorry for what he did…he's such a _brute._ Are you all right?"

Ronald's voice died in his throat a few times before he could get himself to speak. She was so _close _to him, and she was _worried _about him, and apologizing for something she needn't apologize for. "I'm…fine," he answered faintly. "I-I wasn't bleeding for long. A-and it could have been worse. It didn't hurt…"

"And he pushed you out into the mud!"

He cringed at the memory of it, face flushing even more deeply with embarrassment. "That didn't hurt, either, and…and I was in his way," he muttered, avoiding her gaze. "I was in the doorway. I should have been looking up."

"Don't think like that," she protested a little scoldingly. "You were just doing your job. You didn't know he was coming, and you can't do a good job of sweeping the floor if you're not watching what you're doing! He was rude, anyway. He didn't even say 'excuse me' or so much as clear his throat like a gentleman should. He's just a stupid bully. You didn't do anything wrong." She turned and looked at the furnace with interest, which was now on and radiating heat into the room. "You're not a rat like he said you are. You're amazing! You already fixed the furnace…last time the repairman came out, it took him half the day." She smiled back at him. "Thank you so much. We really owe you for this."

He modestly rubbed at the back of his neck and turned away from her to put his tools away in their box. "It was nothing; d-don't mention it. I…it's…it's late…I should get going." His face was still burning red, and he could feel it, so he was grateful for the dim light. As flattered as he was by her compliments, he felt too awkward receiving such praise from _her._ He didn't feel worthy of it. Awkwardly, he headed for the stairs. "Um…if it breaks down again, you can come find me and I'll fix it again."

"Ronald, wait." She hurried after him, taking his hands into hers, causing him to blush anew. "Please…this wasn't _nothing,_" she said quietly, keeping her gaze lowered to hide a pained expression. "This is the coldest winter we've had in a decade. Everyone in the house would have gotten sick if you hadn't fixed the furnace for us. You've really, _really _gotten us out of trouble. Please let us pay you back somehow…you didn't even owe us anything; you just came over and fixed it without any questions. Please let us repay your kindness." She squeezed his hands a little. "Your fingers are like ice. I don't know how you managed to work like this. Please come upstairs so we can warm you up…I don't want you to get sick." She looked imploringly up at him. "Won't you please stay for dinner? I mean it…"

Ronald hesitated a long while — out of politeness, he wished to decline, not to mention their social barriers held him back as well. He was an illegitimate orphan, and she was the respected daughter of the mayor. It simply wasn't the way things were done, and everyone knew that. But her imploring tone broke his heart, and so he relented, not wanting to make her unhappy. "I…would your mum and dad be okay with this?" he asked at last, feeling guilty.

Hope seeped into her expression in the form of a smile. "My mother is the one who _suggested _it," she said eagerly. "She said that if you fixed the furnace, we ought to give you a warm dinner, at least. She said, 'the way that poor boy looks, he _can't_ be eating properly'. And then Papa agreed and said that you do good work for everyone, but never ask for anything in return, and that you deserve a reward. It's nothing terribly fancy…tonight we're having a couple of Cornish game hens and some vegetables from our garden. Oh, and our maid, Ruth, makes a truly lovely potato soup that just warms you right up from the inside! It's simply delicious."

Ronald blinked in surprise at this news, thinking it was too good to be true, but there was no way he could decline now. Finally, he nodded, smiling uneasily. "Alright. You win…I accept," he told her. "Thank you for your gracious invitation — "

Her entire face positively lit up with joy, and she beamed at him so sunnily that Ronald didn't even register the cold anymore, he was blushing so deeply. "Oh, no, it's our _pleasure _to have you!" she said happily. "It's the least we could do. You're our hero, Ronald Knox." And then, quick as a flash, before he could so much as blink, she leaned forward and gave him a little peck on the cheek. In the next moment, she drew back and stepped away, picking up her lantern and hurrying up the stairs. Halfway up, she turned back to look at him, seemingly taking no notice of his completely thunderstruck expression. "If you want to wash up before dinner, there's a washroom in the front hall. It's the second door on your right when you walk in. See you there!" With that, she vanished up the stairs.

It honestly took Ronald five whole minutes to collect himself. He stood stock-still in the middle of the cellar, eyes wide, face flushed, heart pounding, and mind racing, unable to believe what had just happened. Had she just _kissed _him? Or was he dreaming? It was almost too good to be true. He reeled a little bit before he remembered that his legs worked, and he began his own ascent up the stairs in a daze. He was in such a dumb stupor that when he reached the top of the stairs, he couldn't recall why he'd gone up or where he was supposed to go. It was only after a moment of bafflement that he remembered, and, laughing aloud at his temporary forgetfulness due to the kiss, he hurried off to find the washroom, bewilderment turned into bliss.

He was now in such a good mood that he began cheerfully humming an old Welsh folk tune while he scrubbed the dirt and grease from his arms, hands, and face. When he had dried himself off, he looked at himself in the mirror, noticing his own happiness and offhandedly realizing he couldn't remember the last time he felt so…elated. Or even particularly happy at all. He suddenly became aware that, while he was generally content or otherwise in a good mood, no one and nothing quite made him _happy _like Christine and thoughts of her did. He looked at his reflection a little quizzically as he thought these things, but then shrugged, smiled, and nodded at the mirror before leaving the washroom and standing out in the hallway.

He realized then that Christine hadn't told him where to go, so he stood awkwardly in the hall for a moment. It wasn't a very long hall, and he was on the ground floor, so he figured that the dining room must be somewhere around here, but he didn't want to open doors at random — that would be extremely rude. He looked left and right as he crept down the silent hallway. "Er…hello? Is there anyone there?" he called. "I'm afraid I'm a bit lost, and — "

"Ronald, our house isn't _that _big! Honestly, you're so silly," Christine chirped behind him. He started a little and whirled around to face her.

"Ahh…I'm sorry, I've just never been in…such a big house," he stammered apologetically. "Don't get out much, really."

"It's not _that _big," she repeated with a smile. "It's kind of a trick. The entry hall is the biggest room, but the rest are rather average, if you ask me. The Montgomery manor is a palace compared to this, though. But in any case, it _is _my fault that you got lost. I forgot to tell you where the dining room is. I'm sorry, Ronald."

He shook his head slowly, distracted by her cute smile. "It's…fine…I would have found it eventually, and…" he trailed off with a frown as he glanced up at the left side of her face, where the skin was obviously bruised — it was obvious in the light. "…did you…get hurt?" he asked quietly and concernedly.

"Hurt?" she repeated in surprise. "I…no, why?"

"Your face, there's…there's a bruise. Right there on your cheek…it looks like it hurts." Alarmed, she put a hand up to her cheek in order to conceal it, but not before Ronald had noticed that the skin that wasn't bruised, was red, and shaped suspiciously like a hand. Someone had hit her. Abused her. "Miss Trowell…who did that to you? That's a handprint…"

She was silent, and then smiled bitterly. "You're very observant, Mr. Knox," she said quietly.

He hesitated a moment before tentatively repeating, "Who did it?"

She cast her gaze down. "…Clint did. After we left the pub." She looked off to the side. "He said that women should know when to keep their mouths shut and not talk back to men."

Ronald felt his mouth fall open in indignation, shaking his head again. "W-what? No! Because you spoke up for me? N-no, _I'm _the one who should be wearing that mark…oh…God, I'm so sorry…does it hurt? I'm so sorry…" He felt sick with guilt. Clint had abused Christine on account of him. He'd _hit _her.

She lifted up her gaze at him, smiling, this time more gently and warmly — more naturally. "It doesn't hurt, I promise. I'm alright."

"But _that's _not alright!" he protested. "He _hit _you…it…it's sick. You didn't deserve it."

"Ronald, please — " to calm him, she took his hands back into her own, and it worked; he immediately shut up. "If I hadn't stood up to him, you might not be alive. He's so strong, and I could tell you couldn't even breathe." She smiled up at him. "I would rather have taken a hit for you and have you alive than have sat and done nothing while you choked to death."

"He wouldn't have," Ronald argued nervously. "There were witnesses…he couldn't have done that in front of everyone. They'd hang him for that, never mind his father — "

"Ronald, you know as well as I do what the Montgomerys do to those who cross them," she said seriously. "How full is our graveyard now? How many more innocent people like you are going to suffer so needlessly? If he hadn't killed you then, he would have done something awful later. By crossing him myself, I just distracted him and made your 'wrong' seem small by comparison. But he wouldn't do anything more than hit me — he values me too much."

"V-values you?" Ronald repeated. "You're not something a _price _can be p — "

"I mean he…fancies me," she said in a tone that made it clear that she was revolted by the idea. "He's made that much quite clear." She smiled again. "You see? I'm not in any danger. I was glad to protect you however I could."

He stood in a very uncomfortable silence, watching her, unable to look away from her unshakeable cheer and confidence. "You don't even know me," he said helplessly after a while. "Why would you go so far to help me?

"I don't have to know you, even though I do," she told him. "What he did was unjust, and that was enough for me to take action." She let go of his hands and turned around, clasping her hands behind her back as she stepped away. "You're no stranger to _me, _Ronald Knox. I meant what I said before: your name seems to be wherever I go in this little village. I know about how much work you take on in order to make a tidy, honest living. I know that you're kind and polite and honest, but playful and proud when you think no one's watching. You're sweet and you work hard for everything you have. Everyone around here likes you and can depend on you. _I _like you already, and we've hardly just met." She smiled brightly again and looked over her shoulder at him. "I think you're a wonderful, strong person."

He stared dumbly at her for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. "…Th-thank you," he said at last. "For helping me out, and…for everything you just said." He smiled uneasily, inspired by her frankness, and steeled himself to return the compliments. "You're v-very…" he had to search for the words; Christine was many things. "Y-you're very generous. And…you're brave. I've never known _anyone_ to stand up to the Montgomerys, and…and you just did without caring about what happened afterwards." He glanced off to the side, relieved that his words were coming more easily. "Everyone in that pub was cheering you on. It was really incredible."

Now it was her turn to blush, looking quite flattered and pleased. Color rose faintly to her cheeks, but she smiled modestly and appreciatively. "You're sweet, Ronald," she said softly. "Thank you." She paused and hesitated for a second before she continued. "You know…to be honest, I've been hoping to get your attention for a while now, just because of all the stories I've heard about you." She smiled sheepishly. "I'd heard you fixed things, so I was about ready to purposely make one of my windows stick or block up a chimney flue or something. It was entirely coincidental that our furnace broke down last night, because I'd planned on doing something today."  
>Ronald stared at her in shock. She'd been <em>trying<em> to meet him. His heart fluttered at the revelation, and he thought he had to have been dreaming. "Wha…why would you go through so much trouble to meet me?" he asked in wonder. "I'm…I'm nobody. Just another ordinary villager…"

"I was curious," she replied, rocking back and forth on her heels a little bit. "I feel like I've met someone famous, truthfully."

"I'm sort of shocked," he admitted. "I don't think anyone but my own mum ever paid so much attention to me." He laughed a little nervously. "I have no idea what to think other than it's just kind of strange…"

She began to walk, motioning for him to follow, and he did. "I know it seems like a bit much, but…I'm not really 'allowed' to socialize with anyone in the village." She gave Ronald a hardened look. "Clint doesn't like me paying attention to anyone but himself. That's why I had to find out about you over time and why I tried to plan a meeting. He's so jealous to the point that it's…ridiculous." She spoke bitterly. "He doesn't even let me have friends."

Ronald frowned deeply and watched her carefully, but couldn't help but automatically look around to make sure that the man in question wasn't lurking and listening. "I don't understand," he said slowly. "I know the Montgomerys have a lot of control over the town, but how does Clint have _that _much control over you?"

She didn't say anything; she just stopped in front of a door at the front of the hall and knocked. There was a moment's pause, and then the door was opened from the inside by a young girl of about fourteen who had bright red hair, styled into two braids that hung down to her shoulders, an abundance of freckles, and bright blue eyes. She curtsied to them both with a polite smile. "Dinner is ready, miss. They've been waiting for you."

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><p><em>Yeahhh, kind of a slow chapter with character development, bluh bluh bluh. Things are going to get interesting in the next chapter, though, I guarantee it! Thanks for reading, and as always, I love reviews. - Lunar Raine <em>


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